


In the Dark Silent the Memories Come and Go

by starsplitter



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Deathfic, Drabble, Ficlet, Hurt No Comfort, Insomnia, M/M, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:14:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27142987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsplitter/pseuds/starsplitter
Summary: Malcolm Reed ponders the past, life, and death.
Relationships: J. Hayes/Malcolm Reed
Comments: 9
Kudos: 15





	In the Dark Silent the Memories Come and Go

**Author's Note:**

> Canon deathfic. Short and bittersweet.

Everything is quiet now.

There is no more steady humming from the Warp engine below my feet, no heavy grav plating that weighs down my every step.

I intentionally keep the lights low in my sparsely furnished apartment. Maybe it’s the years I've spent in space that have me feel more comfortable in a dimly illuminated environment.

The silence has a deafening edge to it.

According to the clock on my stove it is 3:23 a.m.

At night, my existence is reduced: There are no reports to write, no schedules to follow, no meetings to attend. There is only me — and the thoughts that keep me awake.

In the dark silent the memories come and go; like the steady back-and-forth of a tidal wave.

I think of the Expanse and its boundless horrors. I think of Trip and the sacrifice he made to save Archer, and — in the end — all of us.

I think of the pain he’d endured and how much it had changed him.

But most of all, I think of _him_.

I’ve learned to endure my grief like I’ve learned to endure the sleepless nights that plague me so frequently. I distract myself by being as ‘productive’ as one can be at two o’clock in the morning: Light chores, light reading, and so on and so forth.

Both my insomnia and my sorrow are unwelcome visitors I begrudgingly play the good host for until they eventually dull.

I sit with them.

I entertain them and let them partake in my life whenever they chose to descend on me.

I try not to ponder on the notion that my life in all of its absurdity was hard enough — and in spite of it had piled on yet more tragedies in an almost macabre karmic twist. Not too long ago I enjoyed reveling in the treacherously cozy feeling of self-pity, but it gets old fairly quickly and provides no resolve.

At least that’s what my therapist says, and unfortunately our sessions are mandatory.

The clock ticks away another minute.

I’ve come to the conclusion that half past three is the best time to do the dishes: The monotony of the task paired up with the feeling of warm, soapy water splashing against my hands is enough to lull me back into a state of calm, which (best case scenario) sometimes results in another hour or two of sleep after I crawl back to bed.

But not tonight.

Tonight I think of him as I scrub the delicate surface of bone china plates to milky smoothness, a task done quietly to not be a nuisance to my neighbors.

I think of the disdained expression in his eyes every time he looked at me — his eyes were so green. I never realized it until he shut them one last time.

I remember his voice, the way he yelled at me and hissed “Why won’t you let me do my job?”

The way he was dedicated to his duty, to the mission at hand and to the contingent he lead.

I recall the suffocating force of his fists, each punch he threw precise and calculated — it was the only time we were physically close. I wonder if he too felt the strange intimacy our fight held.

Grief isn’t the only thing that suffocates me when I think of him. Each pang of sadness is accompanied by the harrowing feeling of regret.

Maybe; just maybe, if I hadn’t displayed the conduct of a petulant child, things could have been very different between me and the Major, at least in regard to our working relationship.

The various scenarios of _what if_ have been haunting me for a very long time now, although all of it is — and will always be — idle speculation.

Maybe we would have become friends.

Maybe he too felt this inexplicable, undefinable _thing_ whenever we were in the same room.

Maybe we would have hated each other until we parted ways after the mission, happy to never cross paths ever again.

I will never know.

What I do know is that his memory lingers like a ghost in my presence.

In the stillness of the small hours of the morning, before the cold light of day pours through the blinds, my recollection of Major J. Hayes becomes so vivid it is as if he were here.

I relish these moments, reveling in the comfort they bring despite knowing that none of it is real.

I can see him now, he’s right next to me in my kitchen watching me as I scrub and rinse plates and silverware — standing in an at-ease position in his paint-splatter pattern uniform (because that’s how I know him, that’s _who he is_ ), a faint condescending sneer tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Hayes has never been much of a talker as far as I am concerned.

Instead he’s observing me like he always did, his eyes piercing and unreadable — my God, how I hated the way he looked at me when he was still alive — so I usually do most of the talking in our imaginary interactions.

Sometimes I tell him about what had transpired after he died: The end of the Temporal Cold War. Terra Prime. The signing of the Federation Charter. How I had lost my best friend.

Sometimes I reminisce about events from the past: How mortified and guilty I felt getting the dressing down of my life by the Captain after our derailed sparring match — and that, for the record, this event still counts as one of the low points of my career.

Usually I make an effort to apologize to him again, although I have a feeling neither the living nor the dead Hayes would be impressed.

On days I feel especially brave I tell him that I miss him, and that on more than one occasion found myself wishing I had died in his place. I tell him about how much the past pains me. That oftentimes he visits me in my dreams, and upon waking I find myself haunted by both grief and joy — the edges of my pillow tear-stained (and my sheets occasionally sticky).

Sometimes I cry, sometimes I laugh, and sometimes — like today — I ponder these matters in silence: Is there a chance that in this universe, with its infinite fractals of possibilities, there is another timeline where he is still alive?

Is there such a thing as an afterlife where one day I might see him again?

Is there any validity to the truism that supposedly time heals all wounds, and when exactly can I expect it to happen?

I have yet to receive a definite answer to these questions.

But in my mind’s eye I can see imaginary Hayes give me a rare half-enigmatic, half-condescending smile.

In a few hours the first light of day, pale hues of yellow and orange, will trickle through the curtains — chasing away the ghosts of the past.

I will see him vanish once more and each time it stings and burns anew.


End file.
